


Five Times Michael Found Gerry (And One Time It Didn't Have To)

by cedarbranch



Series: I've Been Lost [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, It/Its Pronouns for The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), M/M, and falling in love is weirder, michael's entire existence is weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: Michael finds Gerry. Gerry pretends he doesn't want to be found. It's what they do.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael
Series: I've Been Lost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684690
Comments: 25
Kudos: 190





	Five Times Michael Found Gerry (And One Time It Didn't Have To)

**Author's Note:**

> can be read as a standalone, but i'd recommend reading the previous work in this series for context!

_i._

Michael should be afraid, after the final door closes. 

It can still taste the fear on the back of its tongue, the afterimage slow to fade. Nothing has changed since it opened the door into the heart of the Spiral, so logically, it should still be as afraid as it was before. But it has no need to be. Not anymore. It only feared to become, and that part is over. It has unraveled and woven back together in a strange sort of shape, one that keeps its mind turning, grasping at scraps of being.

There is no reason to be afraid.

The hallways are enchanting. For a time, Michael exists only as the hallways, nothing more. It’s easier that way; they agitate fewer corners of its angled consciousness. Then it gets bored, and hungry, so it pulls a humanoid shape out of itself. It has to keep pushing and twisting tight to get the shape to stay in place. Even so, its head aches with the definite weight of its own limbs, and it knows it wouldn’t blend into a crowd.

That’s fine.

It steps out of a door, and the world opens up around it. Everything is _light_ outside. Not in the harsh, glaring way it's accustomed to, but with an airy effortlessness. Michael doesn’t particularly care for it, but it doesn’t dislike it, either. 

It draws an unsuspecting businessman into one of its doors. He opens it right up, convinced it’s his own front door, and tumbles into the swirling current of an endless hall. His terror saturates every nook and cranny. Michael drinks it in, reveling in it, and laughs. It is not hungry anymore. A dull pulse of something half-remembered thrums within its chest, and its arms wrap tight around itself in loops, but at least it is not hungry. 

It opens doors and passes through them. It closes doors and intersects. It gets used to it, this impossible existence.

It thinks off and on about a man it once called Gerry, and the strange, distant concept of home. 

It places a door into the wall of Gerry’s flat.

It doesn’t mean to, not at first. One second the door is not there, and the next, Michael can feel its presence. It is not surprised, but it is… curious. So it keeps the door, and it listens. It doesn’t open it. That much will be up to Gerry. Instead, it listens hungrily—this hunger is not the same kind that drove the businessman mad within its corridors, but it is hunger nonetheless. 

Gerry does not open the door. Michael is a bit disappointed. Gerry has a pull to him, something that drags at the deepest, most tangled parts of Michael like a magnet. It wants… _something_ from him. To consume him, maybe? Or perhaps not. It does not want to understand him, because it is no longer capable of doing so; the very concept of comprehension would slip through it like quicksand.

It wants to feel his presence as easily as it feels one of its own doors. 

And eventually, it does.

It feels the weight of each step as Gerry approaches, his mind made up. After so much waiting, Gerry opens the door, and Michael has found him at last. Something flickers and flares inside it, bringing a smile to its face. Gerry’s posture is hard and defensive; he is out of place with the air distorted around him. He is perfect.

“All right, you son of a bitch,” he says. His voice hums at a frequency that harmonizes with something in Michael. Michael almost shivers. It’s _wrong_ —nothing should be able to harmonize with its inherent discord. But Gerry’s voice somehow finds a line to run parallel with when he asks, “What the hell do you want from me?” 

“I just wanted to watch,” says Michael. It is not true, and it is. Michael doesn’t want anything it can name, but it wants, and the object of its wanting is Gerry. There is not a proper verb for it. Watching is the closest it will get.

Gerry takes a long time to recognize it. Or what it used to be, at least. When he does, it comes with a splash of fear. Michael wants to relish in it, but it’s tainted, mixed in with something hollow and cold that Michael doesn’t like. 

“Fuck you,” says Gerry, wide-eyed. 

Michael laughs. Gerry’s instincts are the same as ever: reckless, defensive, and dangerous. “You’re still very headstrong,” Michael says. “He liked that about you. Except for when it made him worry.”

Something inside of it twists with a sharp yank, like a muscle used incorrectly. Its head blurs with images of Gerry, bruised or bandaged or spitting out a threat, and the fluttering anxiety he used to bring out in a different Michael. _That_ Michael cared very, very much. That Michael wouldn’t have liked to see Gerry like this. 

“Don’t you dare talk about him,” says Gerry, a little choked up.

“Why not?” Michael asks. 

“Because you _aren’t_ him.”

“That is correct. But I remember him, and I remember you.” Michael can see it now, can _feel_ it: the softness, the gently solid definition of being Michael Shelley, the way his love for Gerry settled over him.

“That’s why I’m here, you know,” it says, its own voice a distant stranger.

It cannot name this feeling—to do so would defy its own nature, and unravel the coils that keep its tentative being intact—but it cannot ignore it, either. It is drawn to Gerry Keay, and it will keep him safe.

It will keep him. 

_ii._

Michael is lingering in the corner of a coffee shop where one of the baristas is progressively losing her grip on reality when it feels something. 

It’s the pounding of footsteps, the ragged breath, the sharp tang of fear. Someone is running for their life. Someone needs a door. 

Michael seizes a doorknob and throws one open. 

It hooks a finger into the collar of Gerry’s leather jacket as he races past, yanking him back across the threshold. It’s not quite enough to bring him to a halt, though, and his momentum sends him tumbling into the opposing wall. He groans. Michael giggles. 

Gerry straightens up, taking in the sudden onslaught of light and color around him. It takes him a minute to process. His eyes are wide with a fear he’d never admit to, but his jaw is set, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and terse: “What was that for,” he says. It’s less a question, and more a threat. Michael can’t help it; it laughs harder, clutching a hand to its chest. That’s Gerry—so convinced he’s seen it all, he can’t even tell a danger from a savior.

“What?” Gerry demands.

“You’re afraid of me,” Michael says. Saying it out loud, it’s not so funny anymore. Michael feels its smile vanish, wiped clean as though it never existed. Perhaps it didn’t. “I believe the polite thing to do after someone saves your life is to say thank you,” it says.

Gerry hesitates. He watches Michael carefully, and when it doesn’t move, he says, “I guess… thanks, then.”

There is silence.

Michael does not like the way Gerry is looking at it. It expected anger; that’s Gerry’s go-to, the brazen, stubborn cover-up for fear. But the initial tension has faded from Gerry’s expression, leaving him confused and achingly sad. It grates against Michael’s insides like sandpaper. It does not _like_ this.

“Why did you save me?” Gerry asks.

Michael shrugs. “Must there be a reason?” it says, somewhat petulantly. 

Gerry nods, looking even sadder. Ugh. Michael had intended that as a non-response, but Gerry seems to have gotten something out of it all the same. Michael scowls. “I didn’t _have_ to,” it says. “I just _did_.”

“Um… yeah,” Gerry says. “Makes sense. I kind of doubt anyone could tell you what to do.”

“They couldn’t,” says Michael.

“Yeah,” Gerry agrees. He straightens up, finally dropping his hand from the wall where he’d been defensively positioned. “So,” he says. “Still not going to kill me, then?”

“I might,” Michael says coldly. 

That brings the edge back into Gerry’s expression. “Right,” he says. That’s more like it. This is familiar territory, something Michael can twist into whatever it needs. 

There is a door next to Gerry. “Go,” Michael says. Gerry doesn’t need to be told twice. He opens it and steps out into the sunlight. 

Michael does not like this at all.

_iii._

Gerry’s elbows are up on the bar. He slouches over them, not bothering to look up when Michael slides into the stool next to him.

“What d’you want,” he says tiredly, a slight slur in his words. 

“You’re drunk,” Michael says.

“Great deduction, Sherlock,” Gerry mutters. He picks up his glass and knocks back another swig of whiskey. 

“Why?” Michael asks. 

“I dunno. Why’re you interrogating me about my drinking habits?” Gerry still won’t look at it. Michael props its chin up in one distorted hand.

“You are still not afraid,” it observes.

“Yeah, well,” Gerry says. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Michael hooks a curled finger into his glass and pulls it slowly across the counter. Gerry sighs and rubs his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “Will you just tell me what you _want_ already?”

Michael hums. “No,” it says.

“Course not,” Gerry says darkly. “That’s the Spiral, isn’t it. Just determined to be bloody inconvenient all the time.”

“I did save your life,” says Michael.

“Yeah, and then immediately threatened to kill me again,” Gerry says. He finally turns to look at Michael, eyes burning. “I don’t know what the hell you are, or how much is still..." He sighs. "God, I know I can’t very well ask you anything, you’ll just start laughing and speaking in riddles. Whatever your plan is, it’s fucking confusing.”

“I don’t know that I have a plan at all,” says Michael. 

“Says the liar.”

Michael giggles. “I suppose you’ll just have to decide for yourself how much is the truth,” it says. “What do _you_ want to happen?”

Gerry’s mouth thins into a flat line. “Do you want the truth?” he asks.

“Not particularly,” says Michael.

Gerry takes his drink back from Michael. Michael doesn’t stop him. He takes another sip, and sets the glass back down delicately. “I want you to stop following me,” he says. “Stop opening spooky doors, stop inexplicably saving my life, stop all of _this_.” He waves his hand vaguely and almost knocks his glass over. “It’s just—I’ve got to assume this is your whole plan, to slowly torture me until I lose it. I should say congratulations, really, ‘cause it’s apparently fuckin’ working.”

Michael had been wrong, before.

“You are _very_ drunk,” it says, delighted. 

“Fuck off,” Gerry grumbles. “It should be easier, talking to you like this, but it’s just…” He makes a face. “Hurts in more ways than one, now. Feels like a hangover just listening.”

“Do I hurt you normally?” Michael asks.

Gerry gives it a look. “Don’t even,” he says. “You know.”

“Know what?”

“What you are.”

Michael snorts out a laugh. “Me?” it says. “If you truly think that’s the case, you are much less smart than I’ve been giving you credit for. Identity is the last thing I’d be able to comprehend.”

It keeps snickering to itself as Gerry goes on. “Fine,” he says irritably. “You’re a creepy confusion monster with identity issues. Like that makes things any easier for me.”

“Hmm. For the record, you aren’t easy for me, either.” Michael idly twirls a lock of hair around its finger. Gerry stares.

“I… what? Hang on, what do you mean?”

“How do you feel about yellow?” Michael asks.

Gerry squints. “What?”

“The doors,” says Michael. “I could change the color, if you wanted.”

“I—oh my God. Fuck this, I’m going.” Gerry slides off his stool. He stumbles a bit when his feet hit the ground, and grabs the counter to steady himself. “Don’t follow me,” he says, pointing at Michael. “I mean it.”

“I won’t,” says Michael.

It lies.

_iv._

The man stares up at Michael, his knuckles white around the edges of the book. The pages bleed aggression into the surrounding air. It might be more fun if he’d gotten the chance to read them—then he’d put up a bit of a fight—but this is more convenient. 

Michael holds out its hand.

“Wh-what do you want with it?” the man says uneasily.

“Nothing,” Michael says calmly. “Nothing at all.”

The man straightens up a bit, squaring his shoulders. “All right, then,” he says. “I’ll keep it.”

Michael laughs. “Oh, will you?” it asks, allowing its form to slip. It spirals in a thousand directions, towards the ceiling and closer to the man all at once. “I don’t think it’s yours.”

“I-it is mine,” the man says, his voice only shaking a little. Admirable. But his fear is as thick as ever. 

“No, it is not,” Michael concludes. “You stole it from another hunter by the name of Gerard Keay.”

The man’s face flashes from shock to anger, then back again. “Keay?” he asks. “You know him? I thought he—he hates monsters, he hunts them! You can’t be working for him?”

Michael smiles. “I do not work for him,” it says.

The man flushes. He tightens his grip on the book and mutters to himself, “I should’ve made sure that son of a bitch was really dead—”

He does not finish speaking, because Michael has sliced his throat open with a flick of one finger. 

Michael picks the Leitner up off the floor and knocks on the nearest door, pushing it open just a bit.

There’s a pause, then Gerry says, “Come in.”

Michael slips through the crack and shuts the door behind it. Gerry’s sitting on the couch, a map covered in scribbled notes and circles open on the coffee table in front of him. He looks up, and his eyes lock on the book in Michael’s hands. 

Michael holds it out. “I thought you might want this,” it says. 

Gerry frowns. “How’d you get that?” he asks. Michael doesn’t answer. He gets up slowly, and walks over to grab hold of the book. Michael doesn’t let go, and his frown deepens. “What—”

“Do you hate me?” Michael asks. 

Gerry jerks his hand back like he’s been burned. “Wh-what?” he asks. 

“Do you hate me,” Michael repeats steadily. 

Gerry swallows hard. “Why do you ask?” he asks. 

“Because I am not Michael.”

Gerry inhales sharply. He grabs the book and steps back. Michael doesn’t stop him. “Christ, what kind of question,” he says. “I mean—what do you want me to say to that?”

“Whatever you want to.”

“I…” Gerry sighs and retreats to the kitchen. Michael follows. Gerry tosses the book down onto the kitchen table and drops into a chair. “I don’t know,” he says. The words come grudgingly, like someone else is dragging them out, pulling until they snap. “I should. I _did_.”

“And now?” Michael asks. It stands still, the spirals inside it momentarily forgetting to swirl.

“Now, I… I just don’t know, okay?” Gerry rubs his eyes and gestures to the other chair. “Sit,” he says.

Michael blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Sit. It’s weird if you’re the only one standing.”

Michael sits. That odd feeling is back, like the floor has vanished beneath it. This is a kind of twist it cannot follow. “You aren’t leaving,” it says.

“And neither are you,” says Gerry. “What’s your point?” 

“It is… unlike you. To tolerate my presence.”

“Yeah, well. You’re clearly not going to leave me alone anytime soon, so I might as well get used to it.” Gerry looks away, drumming his fingers against the table.

Michael looks around the room. It’s different from what it remembers, but only slightly. Michael can feel the empty spaces now, and what they could be, if their three dimensions came unbound.

“What do you want me to call you?” Gerry asks, breaking the silence. “I might as well have something. You still haven’t told me your name.”

Michael considers this. “You may call me Michael,” it says. 

“But I thought you—”

Michael lifts a finger, cutting him off. “It Is Not What It Is,” it says. “Michael is gone. Now _I_ am Michael. There is a difference.”

Gerry furrows his brow. “O-kay,” he says. “I… Okay, yeah, not gonna think on that one too hard. I’ll just call you Michael. Works well enough.”

Michael smiles. “Do you want me to call you Gerard?”

Gerry winces. “N-no. Gerry’s fine,” he says. 

“Gerry is what your friends call you,” says Michael. "Does that make us friends?"

Gerry shrugs. “I don’t know. I honestly couldn’t tell you at this point. Do you _want_ to be my friend?”

“I want…” Michael trails off. It is not Gerry’s friend, but it knows him. It knows the sound of his voice and the touch of his hands and the taste of his fear. They call out to it, pulling a buried warmth up to the surface, and soothing tight corkscrews into loose ringlets. Michael’s coils are not _meant_ to be soothed, it doesn’t like it, but that does not stop it from wanting, and the want is _strong_. 

“Michael?” Gerry asks, concerned, and something in Michael snaps like a loose spring.

“I don’t know,” it blurts out. It flickers like static, and it’s standing up now, pacing the room in a glitch of not-quite-motion. “I don’t _know_ ,” it says, agitated. “I-I-I can’t talk about myself, I can’t explain, I don’t want to, I—”

Gerry gets up, holding out his hands. “Michael, it’s okay,” he says quickly. “Calm down, you don’t have to answer—”

The reassurance in his voice warms Michael from the inside out, and it hurts. “Stop it!” it cries out. It covers its ears and collapses inwards like a kaleidoscope, fractals breaking into fractals, anything to keep itself from unraveling. The angles are too much and not enough. Gerry curses.

Michael looks up in a flash, and Gerry is bracing himself against the counter, covering his eyes. His face is contorted with pain. “I’m sorry,” Michael says, panicked. “Don’t look, don’t look, I-I didn’t mean to—” 

It loses track of itself and squares into a different shape. A hurt Gerry is somehow worse than a concerned Gerry—it brings forth something frantic and completely foreign in Michael. It sends every piece of it reeling. 

“I’m sorry,” it tries again. The words do not come out as words. Michael reaches blindly into a shifting plane and wrenches open a door for it to fall through.

As soon as it does, it bursts into a dizzying mosaic of clarity and confusion, and forgets that it has ever been anything else.

_v._

Michael does things because it wants to. That isn’t a problem. It is not bound to anything—it only acts on its own desires. It is never helpless against the will of any other power. 

But it might be helpless against itself. And that is worse by far. 

Michael stands in front of a door, and it does something it does not usually do: it hesitates.

Then it knocks.

“Hold on one second,” says a muffled voice. Michael waits. The door swings open. “Come in,” Gerry says. “I was just making dinner.” 

Michael glides inside and waits a few feet behind Gerry. Gerry goes back to stirring a pot of what looks like ramen on the stove. “Wasn’t sure you’d be back,” he says, not looking up. 

“I am,” says Michael.

Gerry huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I can see that.” He stirs idly, then lets his wooden spoon rest. “Are you… okay?”

“I am always okay,” says Michael.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s what that was. Just a normal day for you.” 

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Michael says, scowling a little.

Gerry laughs. “What, you think I’m suddenly gonna stop doing that? Can’t just change my whole personality out of nowhere. That's more… hm.” He goes quiet and returns to his stirring. Michael wanders over and watches. 

“Are you all right?” it asks.

“Me?” Gerry glances up at it. “Yeah, why?”

“I thought I had hurt you, last time. I didn’t know how much you had seen. If your mind could… take it.”

Gerry shakes his head. “Nah. You said it yourself, the first time we met—I’m pretty tough. Thanks for the concern, though.”

Michael rests its chin over Gerry’s shoulder. “I am not _concerned_ ,” it sighs. “I was just _asking_.”

Gerry has gone very still. “R-right,” he says. “Sorry.” He lowers his voice, talking mostly to himself when he adds, “No, if you were actually concerned, then you wouldn't ask.”

“I could,” Michael says.

“You don’t really do direct communication, though.”

“I do not,” Michael agrees.

Gerry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, there we go.” He reaches up into the cupboard and grabs a bowl. “For what it’s worth,” he says, scooping ramen into it, “I’m glad you’re okay. I was… a little worried.”

Michael’s fingers twist up as it focuses on keeping its edges soft—at least the ones that are touching Gerry. “Why?” it asks.

“Um. I don’t know. It was kind of scary, whatever happened to you before.” 

“I am scary,” Michael accepts.

“Not all the time.” Gerry carefully steps aside. “Did you… Is there any particular reason you came back?” Michael shrugs. “Okay. Well, I was just going to relax for a while. D’you… want to watch TV?”

Michael blinks. “With you?”

Gerry looks away. “Um, yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “That was the invitation.” 

Michael goes into the living room and waits for Gerry to sit down. Once he has, Michael sits next to him. Gerry turns the TV on, switches it to some program Michael hasn’t seen before. It stays very still. It is confused in a different way than usual. It is having trouble keeping its limbs straight. After a while, it slips, and part of it melts around Gerry’s shoulder. Gerry stiffens a bit. Michael tries to bring it back in, but Gerry shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “It’s fine,” he says.

Michael slides down so its head is in Gerry’s lap. It doesn’t look away from the television. It isn’t watching.

“Michael,” Gerry says hesitantly.

“That is a name,” says Michael. 

“How much of… Do…” Gerry sighs. “Okay, starting small. Is it possible for you to dislike something?”

Michael frowns. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay. Is it possible for you to _like_ something?”

“Yes.”

“So you can conceptualize feelings, then.”

“I cannot _conceptualize_ anything,” says Michael. “At least, not very well.”

“Oh. Oh, that actually explains—yeah. Okay. Can you… can you feel, then? D’you think?”

Michael is quiet. It considers the question, and whether or not to give an answer. It does not trust itself to be able to speak—the pulling sensation is back, and if it speaks, bits of itself might come tumbling out. It doesn’t want to come undone again.

But it still replies with the truth: “Not the way a human does.”

The resulting feeling is—strange. It’s not the cascade of unraveling it expects. Something feels uncomfortably out of place, contradicting the rest of it. But its very existence is contradiction, so really, it’s not so strange at all.

Gerry makes a quiet sound, like he’s starting to say something, but cuts himself off. “Did I hurt you?” Michael asks, twisting to look up at him. Gerry shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Just… thinking.”

“About?” Michael asks.

“You.”

“What were you thinking?”

“You wouldn’t be able to answer if I asked,” says Gerry. “It's a... conceptualizing-feelings thing. I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

Michael turns back to the television. “I don’t think you will,” it says, and closes its eyes.

“Michael?” Gerry says. Michael doesn’t respond. Gerry exhales slowly, and adjusts his position a bit. 

After a while, he lays his hand tentatively against Michael’s head, and runs his fingers through its hair. 

Michael doesn’t say a word.

_vi._

Michael likes this coffee shop. The barista has long since collapsed under the strain of her own failing mind. She wandered into the hallways where Michael could draw in every last drop of her terror, and no one has noticed her absence since. But Michael keeps coming back to the little shop. It’s pleasant. Michael doesn’t drink anything, doesn’t even bother with the pretense of ordering, but it has a little corner table where it likes to sit and watch from the window.

It is doing exactly this when Gerry knocks on a door.

Michael sits up. There’s a door next to the table now—it leans over and pulls it open. Gerry steps tentatively though. He blinks, looking around. “Oh,” he says. “Huh.”

“What?” Michael asks.

“Nothing. I just thought this would go into your hall.”

“I am not always there,” says Michael. “Even when I am.”

“I… Yeah, I’ve seen you in here before. I didn’t realize you came when I wasn’t around.” Gerry haf-smiles. “That… sounds really self-centered, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s all right. Would you like to sit?” Michael gestures to the chair across from it. 

“Ah, yeah. Sure.” Gerry slides into the open seat. He keeps looking around, like there’s something he’s missing.

“Don’t worry, there’s no danger,” says Michael. “Nothing smart would dare walk in while I’m here. And if something did,” it smiles, “I would take care of it.”

“What?” Gerry glances over at it. “Oh, thanks. I think I’m gonna grab a coffee, do you want anything?”

Michael thinks for a moment. “If they have tea,” it says.

“Got it.” Gerry gets up and goes over to stand in line. He sticks out like a sore thumb among the rest of the patrons—the piercings and eye tattoos would be enough on their own, but his leather jacket and combat boots make the contrast even more glaring. When Gerry brings their drinks over, Michael can’t help snickering to itself.

“What’s so funny?” Gerry asks as he sits down.

“Your aesthetic clashes very badly with this place,” says Michael.

Gerry huffs. “Goths can like cute cafes too, all right? Some of us enjoy a little normality once in a while.”

“Which is why you are sitting here with me,” says Michael, amused. 

Gerry laughs. “Caught me there.” He pushes Michael’s tea across the table. Michael wraps its fingers around it.

“You don’t usually knock,” it says.

“What?” Gerry asks, sipping his coffee.

“You don’t usually come to me,” Michael clarifies. “I don’t believe you ever have.”

Gerry shrugs, a bit too casual. “Things can change,” he says. 

“They can.”

“I wanted to see you, that’s all.”

Michael doesn’t respond. Gerry’s face reddens a bit, and after another few seconds of silence, he starts talking about his latest Leitner hunt. He rambles until he’s finished his coffee—Michael still hasn’t actually drank its tea—then gets up, looking uncertain. “I think I’m going to head home,” he says. “Do you… want to come along?” 

Michael opens a door and steps back into Gerry’s flat. “Do _you_ want to come along?” it asks. Gerry grins and follows it.

“You’re a bit cheeky, you know that?” he asks, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it over the kitchen table. 

“I am many things,” says Michael.

“Yeah, I gathered.” Gerry stops in front of it, looking it up and down, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Number one is confusing. Number two… tall. And then cheeky’s number three.”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Michael says. Gerry laughs, and Michael feels its lips curl into a smile.

“What about me, then?” Gerry asks, leaning back against the counter.

“Well, that’s easy. You’re angry and bitter. And… very committed to your aesthetic.” 

“Oh, come on, there’s more to me than that! Give me something, go on.”

Michael moves closer to flick Gerry’s hair back. “Reckless,” it says. “Insufferably so.”

“And?” Gerry asks. “What else?”

“Hmm.” Michael thinks for a moment. Gerry watches it. It’s been a while since Michael has been this close to him. It’s getting easier, though. It just has to lean into that unsteady feeling, allow the confusion to take it over even more deeply than it usually does. It can handle a little unsteadiness. Much better than it can handle being away from Gerry, that is. 

“Go on, then,” Gerry prompts.

“You’re also quite foolish,” says Michael.

Gerry licks his lips. “Yeah?” he says. “You might be right about that one.” 

He takes Michael’s face in both hands and kisses it. 

Starbursts explode behind Michael’s eyes. Its head spins with vertigo, and disparate pieces of identity threaten to tear apart, only to further entwine. It wraps its arms around Gerry and holds him tight, staying soft, staying gentle, staying safe for him despite the firestorm in its mind. Because even through the chaos, the _want_ burns hotter than anything else. 

This. Thisthisthis. This is what it has wanted.

Gerry pulls back far too soon. He sways, and Michael steadies him. “Are you all right?” it asks quickly. It didn’t even consider how that might have felt on the other end. 

“Yeah,” Gerry mumbles. “That was… huh. Wow.”

“I-is that good?”

Gerry blinks hard. “It was… Hold on. Gimme a second.” He leans against Michael, inhaling deeply. Once he’s collected himself, he asks, “Do you think that’ll happen every time?”

“I-I don’t know, I don’t think so. It’s been getting easier to control.” 

Has it?

Michael feels… odd. The background pain of existence, the usual crackling disparity that inhabits its consciousness, has gone numb. Calmer, somehow. The battle against definition has quieted. 

“D-did you say every time?” it asks belatedly. 

Gerry smiles. His eyes have sharpened up again; their familiar gleam is back in place. “Yup,” he says. “Provided that’s okay with you, obviously.”

“It is okay,” Michael says. 

“Good,” says Gerry, “Because I’m an idiot, and I’m gonna do it again.” 

This time, Michael isn’t caught off guard. It leans into Gerry’s touch and lets the feeling in. Warmth rushes in from corners and curves that do not like each other, and Michael relaxes into it. When it does, the sheer ferocity of emotion nearly sends it reeling again; it was wrong, it was wrong, there is no contradiction in this desire, there is something much more alarming, and that is _unity._

It is not one piece of it that thrills wherever Gerry touches. It’s _everything_.

Gerry tangles his fingers in Michael’s spiraling hair, and Michael kisses him hungrily, all but eclipsed by a desire that somehow makes sense when nothing should. It pushes him back against the counter, and Gerry laughs. “Woah,” he says. “Better that time?”

“Yes. Much.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Gerry tucks a curl behind Michael’s ear. “I’ve wanted to try that for a while.”

“Did you miss it?” Michael asks. 

Gerry pauses. “Not miss,” he says. His face flickers with something pained. “I mean, yes. I did, and I do, and I probably always will. But I’ve never done _this_ before, not with you. I’m glad I got the chance.” He squeezes Michael’s hand. 

“I could still kill you,” Michael says.

“God, you would bring that up, wouldn’t you.” Gerry gently knocks his forehead against Michael’s. “I’m having a moment here. Yes, I know that you’re a deadly Spiral creature with knives for hands, Michael, it’s incredibly apparent. But I don’t think you’re actually going to kill me, and for some unfathomable reason I do actually trust you.”

“That is not very smart of you,” Michael informs him. 

“Yeah, well. Tough.” 

Michael smiles widely. “I like you,” it says. 

Gerry laughs. “You’ve said that,” he says. “I like you, too.” 

Michael is not used to this particular kind of head rush. It doesn’t completely have a physical body; at least, not one that obeys any human rules. It’s not its heartbeat that races, or adrenaline that makes it weak. It’s something completely different. 

Michael still will not name it, but it will allow this feeling in, if it can keep Gerry in its arms.

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw here's my [tumblr](https://spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) and my [gerrymichael playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/19bVqIp7OnAUP39YdNqvkZ?si=F-GInWLwQ8SJyKsOgq_Xcw). this series is now complete but i'll definitely be writing more of these two so stay tuned!


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